The Frozen Heart
by FieryPen37
Summary: When the Dark One killed her love, Milah swore revenge as Captain Hook. Centuries pass, and the lives of her family intersect in the strangest ways.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Milah had always loved the rain. From her earliest memories as a cobbler's daughter, rain meant a pleasant drumming on their caravan's roof, cool fresh air blowing away the dust of the road. Even in her former husband's hovel, it was snug and warm during rainstorms. Baelfire always sought her comfort as the thunder rumbled. She shied away from the memory of her son, his untidy fringe of hair just like hers, and the earnest sweetness in his brown eyes—just like his father's.

"Penny for your thoughts, love?" Killian's faintly accented voice interrupted her reverie. _The Jolly Roger_ rocked gently beneath them, the storm's voice dulled to a murmur for the nonce. She mustered a smile.

"Not worth that much," she replied, accepting his welcome kiss on her lips. He moved to the sideboard and poured a tot of rum for the two of them, expertly balanced against the ship's pitch.

"Here. Rum is never amiss on a night like tonight," he said, lounging back in the seat beside her, feet crossed on the edge of the table.

"Aye, thank you," she said, resting her chin in her cupped palm. In the soft lantern light swaying from the ceiling, his blue eyes glowed from beneath their fringe of kohl-darkened lashes. Dark stubble roughened his cheeks and framed the curl of his habitual smirk. By any measure, he was a trim, powerful man, exuding danger and passion.

He embodied the adventure she longed for and the passion she craved; they were cut from the same cloth. Introspection did not become either of them. Perhaps it was the rain that conjured these memories . . .

"So. Will you tell me what ails you? Charlie tells me you only trounced him once in practice today."

That drew a half-hearted laugh from her. Charles 'Twin Swords' Turley was a magician with a cutlass, and had taken it upon himself to tutor Milah. She had taken to it like she was born with a sword in her hand. At first, the crew had treated her with a wary deference upon Killian and his first mate Black Jack's order. She was not the first mistress of the _Jolly Roger_ , but definitely the last, she thought with savage satisfaction.

"It's nothing, love. Just dreading shore leave. The sea and _The Jolly Roger_ are home. You taught me that." He smiled briefly at this.

"Aye, you're a trueborn pirate. Your crew is your family . . . and the crew loves you, Milah." Her throat closed. As they sailed together, the crew had taught her the skills of a sailor with alacrity and she had earned their respect and love for herself, not just as their captain's lover.

She took a long drink to loosen the knot in her throat. At her uncharacteristic silence, Killian exhaled through his nostrils and paced to the large bay windows at the _Roger's_ stern. He squinted through the thick glass at the churning surf, gleaming black at each crack of lightning.

"We'll make port at Djinn's Bay tomorrow."

There was a certain sharpness in his tone that made her wince _. The Jolly Roger_ lay anchored outside the harbor, waiting for the dawn guard to lift the chain drawn across the bay's mouth. She was due to dock with her swag at Djinn's Bay, and Killian and his men were to sell or trade it in the city of Brandyton. The same city where seven years ago they had run away together. Milah rose and rested her chin on his shoulder, winding her arms around his waist. Nudging aside his high collar, she breathed a kiss onto the side of his neck.

"Ah yes, I remember Black Jack saying something about returning to that tavern on Silk Street, what was it called?"

"The Lemon Tree," he said, still stiff and radiating deadly tension.

"Killian . . ." He shrugged out of her embrace and turned to face her. A muscle fluttered in his jaw, the first two fingers of his left hand drumming on the pommel of his cutlass.

"Do you regret leaving with me?"

"That's not fa-" He grasped her shoulders, hard. A flash of lightning illuminated his thunderous scowling face, burning the afterimage onto her eyes. Mingled fear and arousal settled in her belly, curling sweetly around her innards. She loved when he played the ravaging pirate.

"You were miserable with that mewling weakling of a husband, dying by inches. The boy was the same-"

"Shut up! Don't you dare say anything about my son! You should know better, after what your father did to you and Liam!" she shouted. She used ire to conceal the guilty pang of Killian's jab. She had left Baelfire behind. He had too much of his father in him to enjoy the sea.

Her own words struck home, Killian snarled and shoved her back against the wall, just hard enough to hurt. He leaned close enough for her to smell the rum on his breath, hard hands gripping her hips.

"Admit it. You wanted more than just a reprieve from a pauper's life! You wanted—"

"Yes, you fool man! I wanted you!" Milah lunged forward for a kiss, a savage thing of lips and tongue. Heat surged through her, eager fingers finding the buttons of his vest and breeks.

"Gods yes," he rasped. They pawed and bit at each other in mutual, glorious madness. It had been like this from the first. Passion so bright it was blinding, so hot it burned. He uttered a wordless sound, clawing at her clothing. With careless strength, he shoved her down on their berth bed, palming himself as she kicked out of her boots and breeks.

"You're mine, Milah," Killian said. He slid home and Milah stifled her cry of pleasure by biting his wrist braced beside her head. His pace was relentless, deep and hard. She wrapped her legs around his lean hips, glorying in his possession of her.

"Yours. Oh gods, I'm yours." As the storm raged, they found peace together in the dark.

XXX

The patrons were trying too hard not to notice him. He supposed having the Dark One lurking in the corner was bad for business. The serving maid hovered, hands trembling on a flagon of ale.

"W—Would you take a drop to drink, Sir?" she said. Rumplestiltskin peeled his lips back in a feral smile.

"Leave me be before I flay the skin from your bones," he muttered. A flicker of heavy movement to his left distracted him from the quivering maid. The lowly sailor who sought to deal with him, even sending a little bird to find him. The maid scurried away with no further encouragement.

It was only after Mr. Smee hastily took his leave, the warning of turning him to dust hanging over his head that Rumplestiltskin allowed himself to savor the discovery. If that idiot knew how frantically and thoroughly the Dark One had searched for the bean, he would ask for a thousand lifetimes of youth. _Bae_! He could find him at last, right the one deal he'd broken! Gods, it had already been seven years. Bae would be a man now.

A stray thought reminded him to investigate how Mr. Smee had learned his origins. The Dark One could not have weaknesses such as lost sons. Much of his power came from fear, from the illusion of omnipresence. Beneath his breath he uttered a simple spell to fix it. If any poor soul said his name, he would know.

"Are you sure you don't want anything?" the serving maid asked, noticeably pale.

An arrogant, horribly familiar voice caught his attention. Rage sang through him, magic churning in near-visible thunderclouds around him. The pirate who took Milah. _Killian Jones_. The mood broke with an almost audible noise. He would make the pirate pay, in blood and humiliation. But for now, Rumplestiltskin would watch.

"You know I suddenly find myself quite thirsty."

Oh, how he reveled in his newfound power! To see the crew quiver, to see that cocksure grin fall from Jones' face upon hearing his name was a pleasure in itself. Crocodile indeed!

"How's Milah, of course," Rumplestiltskin said.

"Who?" Killian said. Did women really fall for that vacant expression, those even white teeth? Rumplestiltskin ran his tongue over his own stained teeth, measuring the pirate's words. A giggle rose in his throat, half-mad.

"I'm only too happy to dig out the memory. But, it gets _really_ messy," he said.

"She's dead," the pirate said, his handsome face carefully neutral, "died a long time ago."

Rumplestiltskin faltered at this. Dead? For all their quarrels and cruel words, he had loved her once. She had given him Bae, and now she was dead because of this pirate. His insides churned with conflicting emotion as he set the terms of the duel. It was a measured cruelty to give Killian one last night alive—Rumplestiltskin wanted him to stew in fear. Part of him wanted the pirate to run, so he could give chase and vent some of this well of feeling.

The next morning, a savage joy filled him as he traded blows with the pirate. Then, when he was on his knees, he looked so like the weakling Rumplestiltskin used to be. He set the cutlass to the pirate's chest.

"You know what it feels like, to have your wife stolen from you? It feels like having your heart ripped from your chest." The pulse leapt erratically at Jones' throat.

"You know what? I'll just _show_ you." Rumplestiltskin thrust his taloned hand into the pirate's chest with a ripple of dark magic. He felt the firm shape, the pulsing heat of life. Magic always told true, the pirate's heart would black with all the evil he'd done. A sharp yank and then he'd crush the heart to dust before his eyes.

"Stop!"

And there she was, resplendent in leather and scarlet.

"Milah."

The terms were set. They sailed to the cove specified, and all that was left to do was wait. The scalawag crewman Smee—a runt she and Killian had picked up in the dregs of a coast port—sat tied and gagged in the brig. He had brought this ill luck on them. Milah studied the magic bean, translucent and faintly shimmering in the predawn light. A pretty bauble, but why did the Dark One want it? Milah gripped the rail as _The Jolly Roger_ rocked gently beneath her.

Rumplestiltskin, her coward of a husband, he was now the Dark One. None knew such a thing was possible. Where had he found the stomach and the wherewithal to wrest power from an immortal being of darkness? The mind boggled. The trade was the bean for their lives, a small price to pay. But Rumple's words echoed in her ears. _Tick tock, dearie, tick tock!_

"We've bested him before, we'll do it again," Killian said, pecking a kiss on her cheek. Some of the tension ebbed from her, and she rested her forehead on his shoulder briefly. A brisk wave surged beneath them and she saw Killian wince as he righted himself, kneading his chest.

"He's different now," she said, unable to keep the tremor from her voice. She had never seen Rumple vengeful; he had always been meek and quiet. _She_ had been the dominant one, the powerful one. But he had power now, would he seek to take his power back and steal her away from the family she loved? To see her former husband scaled and dark with his hand _inside_ Killian's chest was a shock, to say the least.

Killian had told her what lies he had spun for Rumple all those years ago, and she felt a faint pang at the thought. Action and the thirst for adventure were not the only traits she and Killian had in common—petty malice was another.

"Aye. A demon, surely. But he wants the bauble. We give him that and fight our way free," he said, gripping the hilt of his cutlass. A sharp grin curved his lips. Killian disliked being bested in anything, and he would go to considerable lengths to salve his pride.

"Perhaps," she said, squinting at the sky. The sun was now blocked by a thick layer of cloud.

"A squall, do you think Jack?" she shouted to the first mate, keeping watch in the crosstrees.

"Nay, Mistress. It's an ill wind." He made a brief reflexive sign against evil. There was something in the scent of the wind beyond salt and cold, the tang of ozone— _magic_. Milah shared a glance with Killian and saw her dread reflected.

"The anchor, Mr. Mullins," Killian said, calm as could be at the helm.

"Aye, Captain!"

An hour passed after the first bell, then another. Milah, Killian and the crew waited, in terror and boredom by turns as the sky blackened and the wind lashed.

"Well the Dark One surely isn't punctual," Killian said dryly.

"Rumplestiltskin said would come. He does have some reputation for deal-making, after all," Milah said.

"You rang?"

Her skin prickled at the high-pitched voice, the grating giggle. He appeared wreathed in red smoke, dressed in scaled leather. He looked. . . dangerous. Killian stepped forward, half between her and Rumple. The crew as well, shifted closer, their hands on their weapons.

"Dark One," Killian said, his lip curled in a snarl.

"Well it seems you finally found the family you could never have with me," he said, ignoring him. Thin lips peeled back in a ghastly grin. Gods, he was repulsive. Mossy teeth, glittering scales, he truly was a crocodile! Milah brandished the bean.

"You asked to see it and now you have. Do we have a deal?" Killian said.

"Can we go our separate ways?" Milah said, unable to keep the nastiness from her tone. Her heart was lodged in her throat. Rumple grinned, dancing a few steps around the deck. Milah curled her fingers around the bean, tension singing through her. All their lives hinged on this trumped-up weakling's whim!

"You mean: do I forgive you? Can I move on? Perhaps. Perhaps." This persona was startling and unfamiliar. When had he _pranced_ , giggling and trilling? Rumplestiltskin turned, facing them.

"I can see you are _truly_ in love." He drawled the word mockingly, wagging his eyebrows. In favor of caution—and the abiding desire to get his filthy form off the deck of _The Roger_ —she allowed the barb to slide.

"Thank you," she said softly. Maybe—just maybe—they would get out of this alive.

"Just one question." Milah glanced at Killian, seeing his skepticism beneath the air of arrogant swagger.

"What do you want to know?" she asked, dread curling in her belly.

"How could you leave Bae?" he said. Milah blinked, taken aback.

"Do you know what it was like walking home that night-"

The waves churned beneath them, the wind a dull roar in their ears, rope and rigging snapping like string. Killian and the crew blanched white, clinging to _The Jolly Roger_. Gods, it was coming from _Rumple_! He'd kill them all!

"-Rumple-"

"-knowing I had to tell our son-"

"Please," she said, pierced by the image of Baelfire's face.

"-his mother was _dead_?"

"I was wrong to lie to you. I was the coward. I knew that," she begged. Anything, any words he wanted to make it _stop_!

"You left him! You abandoned him!"

"And there is not a day that goes by that I don't feel sorry for that!" Her words were so feeble, even to her own ears. Bae, oh Bae.

"Sorry isn't enough!" he shouted. Rumplestiltskin stood, quivering, lungs heaving. Just as suddenly as it began the storm disappeared like magic. The sun was warm on her shoulders.

"I let my misery cloud my judgement," she said at last. He sneered.

"Why were you so miserable?" he said. Milah found her feet, twisting her expression into one of familiar disgust.

"Because I never loved you."

There was a half a heartbeat where she saw pain ripple across his features, and part of her exulted in it. A change settled over him, that unfamiliar danger. Killian saw it too, and shoved her out of the way as the Dark One struck.

XXX

He'd acted without thinking, ruled by a dark instinct to _hurt_ as he had been hurt. Rumplestiltskin stood poised on a knife's edge, a tipping point. _I never loved you. I never loved you. I wished you'd fought. Run home, Rumple. Run home . . ._ The pirate had leapt between them and a part of him was relieved. Killian Jones was no loss to the world. Many a king's navy would thank him. In fact, this was better. If Baelfire's father had to live without him, then so did his mother.

"No!" Milah cried, reaching for her sword.

A negligent wave of his hand knocked Milah against the foremast, ropes anchored to a steel hook snaking around her. He flexed his fingers in the pirate's chest, gripping the heart. A sharp yank and it was free of its owner. It pulsed, a red thing of living beauty, glowing with magic. Strange. Rumplestiltskin would have thought it would be black to the core. The pirate's wild blue eyes sought Milah's face.

"I love you," he rasped. _How nice._ Rumplestiltskin curled his fingers inward. With a sharp cry, Killian fell dead and his heart was dust trickling between Rumple's fingers. He loosed the magic binding Milah.

"No." The word was a broken moan as she drew the pirate's body onto her lap. She petted his face, tears pelting the corpse like rain. The force of her baleful gaze was familiar as she looked up.

"You may be more powerful now Rumple, but you are the same coward you have always been." Before, he might have flinched at the barb, begged for an apology. But no longer.

"I'll have what I came for now," he said, his voice dripping venom. She rose over the pirate's body, quivering with rage and grief. The bean, he realized, was still in her left hand.

"You'll have to kill me first!" Milah said. He grinned, wagging his finger in her face.

"Ah-ah. I'm afraid that's not in the cards for you, dearie."

The sword flashed, and he watched her crumple to the deck beside her lover's corpse with a sharp cry of pain. He plucked the severed hand from the deck and tucked it in his robes. Rumplestiltskin crouched close enough to smell the spice and smoke in her hair, and set the edge of his blade at her throat, red with her own blood.

"I want you alive because I want you to suffer, like I did," he turned, sheathing the sword.

Let her fester in her agony. It would be fit recompense for what she had done to him and Bae. Thudding footsteps caught his attention, he shifted in time to catch the hook Milah had found in the chest. There was a brief wince of pain, but that was swallowed by a mad, wicked glee. He giggled. A pirate wench couldn't kill him. No one could. And she would spend the rest of her days pining for revenge she would never find. It was a sweet thought.

"Killing me is going to take a lot more than that, dearie," he said, mockingly tapping the hook lodged in his chest. Pale with pain, livid with fury and grief, Milah swayed on her feet.

"Even demons can be killed. I will find a way."

"Good luck living long enough," Rumple said, disappearing in a cloud of red smoke, leaving the hook behind.

XXX

The leaden sky mirrored her bleak mood. The wind was calm, a fine cold drizzle settling over _The Jolly Roger_. Milah huddled into the warmth of Killian's black coat and watched from far away as Black Jack sewed her love's body into one of their bedsheets. Cannon shot linked to chains were wrapped gently around his ankles to guide him into the sea. Milah closed her swollen eyes. There were no tears left. Just a hot lump in her throat and twin echoes of pain in her chest and her hand, or where her hand _had_ been. A grim smile touched her lips. She'd learned more from Killian than piracy, she'd learned pickpocketing too. The bean was safe and snug in her pocket. Milah knew they had to find their heading quickly. She'd seen the Dark One's wrath, and he would not enjoy being outsmarted by her again.

"Mr. Foggerty, bring me the prisoner, please," she said to the ship's gunner.

"Aye, Mistress," he said, tugging his forelock.

Ed Jukes, _The Roger's_ cook, also had some skill with healing and had bandaged her severed hand. The . . . _stump_ ached horribly beneath the leather cuff, set with a steel plate. Milah twisted the hook into place, admiring the glint of steel and the faint _ping_ as the rain struck it. Instead of a hand, a weapon. Something had shifted within her, as if all that was warm and loving had died with Killian, and the darkness had expanded to take its place.

William Smee landed with a thud at her feet, smudged hands peeling the gag from his mouth. Clad in only his breeks and his red hat, he shivered violently—from the chill and from the glares of Milah and the crew.

"What . . . what are you going to do to me? It wasn't my fault! I had no idea Mr. Jones-"

" _Captain_ Jones," Milah corrected, leaning over him, "and he's dead because you brought Rump—the Dark One upon us. He's _dead_. Because of you."

"I'm . . . I'm sorry! I had no-" Milah silenced him with a backhanded blow. His whining hurt her ears. Milah knelt beside him and set the tip of the hook at the tender flesh just beneath his right eye.

"Now you are going to tell me everything to know about the bean and that _crocodile_ ," she said with a suggestive dig of the hook. As much of a coward as her former husband, Smee vomited on the deck at her feet. The sour smell and this puling _weakling_ offended her. At her signal, Black Jack and Charlie Turley held down their prisoner.

Alternately coaxing and hurting, Milah extracted Smee's story. It was rumored that the Dark One had sought to protect his son, and had lost him. The bean transported the carrier between realms. Milah dragged in a ragged breath. Bae. _Gone_. Despair yawned beneath her, like the black depths they were about to consign her Killian to. Killian dead, Bae gone. All that was left—her only guiding star in the dark—was revenge. But Rumple had been right. Even if she lived, if she fought, she was _mortal_.

"Tell me, Mr. Mason. What do you know of different realms?" she asked. Jack, his boot casually braced on Smee's head, scratched his stubbled chin.

"Not much, Mistress. But the cap'n heard tell of a fanciful land where boys went in their dreams, where they could fly and never grow up." Milah nodded. She'd heard of it too, a child's tale.

"Neverland. Then I suppose we have our heading, then."

"Aye, Captain," Black Jack said. Milah blinked in surprise. She had assumed the first mate would take Killian's place at _The Roger's_ helm.

"Captain?" she asked, glancing around at the crew. They doffed their caps with murmurs of agreement.

"What shall we do with him, Captain?" asked Bill Stark-Eye, the ship's second mate and navigator, kicking the shivering form of William Smee. Milah smirked.

"His boots look a bit light. What's say we add a bit of lead, eh mates?" she said to a rough shout of enthusiasm. The crew did love a bit of bloodsport. Black Jack grinned, fetching shot and chain. Smee whimpered and wept, struggling vainly as they fitted him with his new bootstraps. Coward. Weakling. _Pathetic_. In his soft features, Milah saw Rumplestiltskin and remembered what he'd done to her.

"I told you everything I know! Why are you doing this?" he cried.

"That was not part of the bargain. I never said you would get to live," she said, "Farewell Mr. Smee."

It took three of her crew to heave him onto the plank, but it was ease itself to watch him fall. A faint splash, a surge of bubbles as water filled his lungs, and Smee was no more. Something like relief washed over her. It was harder to watch Killian's body sink, though plans of revenge were a small comfort.

"Shall we plot our heading, Captain Jones?" Black Jack asked.

"Aye, harden up and get ready to set sail, mates! There's rough seas ahead," she said, striding to the helm.

The bean was warm in her hand, and she fixed the thought of Neverland in her mind, and threw the bean into the sea. Milah squinted at a flash of blue magic. A whirlpool appeared, as if the bottom of the world had collapsed. A crank of the ship's wheel, an adjustment of sail, and they were sailing for the pool.

"No, not Jones," she said, almost to herself. She and Killian had been lovers and partners, but not wed. And a large part of Milah had died with him.

"Hook. Captain Hook."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Milah had thwarted him with the bean, and his rage rolled over the land with the sound of thunder. _Gone!_ The thirst for vengeance was a constant now, a faint ever-present burn in the back of his throat. As he refined his magic, he relished the thought of the day when he and the pirate wench would meet again. There would be no mercy for her then.

With the bean—and Baelfire—still lost to him, Rumplestiltskin scoured every grimoire and ancient text he could find on methods of travel between realms. All magic came with a price, and even magic had its limits.

Time-turners only allowed travel within a person's lifetime, and while the Dark One's existence was ostensibly infinite, he also could not change the course of history. Mages were extinct. The darkness inside him snickered as he researched the fall of Merlin millennia ago. His apprentice was a pale shadow of his master, and as useless. Realm-jumpers showed promise for a time, and Rumplestiltskin spent several productive decades leaping between realms, gathering power as he had once gathered wool. But that too, ultimately disappointed. Realm-jumpers only linked magical realms. He heaved a sigh, straightening the cuffs of his blue silk shirt. That thrice-cursed _fairy_ had chosen her weapon well. The surge of familiar rage and despair mellowed into acute longing. He remembered his boy's earnest face, his cautious smile. _I want my father. The deal is struck._ Lost. Lost to The Land Without Magic.

"I will find you, Bae. I'll make it right, I promise," he said, for the thousandth time.

Soon after he had lost Bae, he had abandoned the village that had been their home. He found the town of Three Streams agreeable. The mountain air was pleasant, the town small but prosperous. Once he found Bae and brought him home, they would need a fresh start. A coil of his spun gold had bought the mountain from the former governor, a tubby minor noble who was happy to quit the backwater town.

He would build a castle for Baelfire. His boy had always admired knights in shining armor and dukes in their lordly castles. Magic would have built the palace in seconds, but faster was not always better. Old magic said that spells were strongest woven over time, with blood and intent. He hired men to quarry the stone, foremen to build his home by hand. Several times a day, he would pace the site and grounds, muttering spells of protection, of binding and watching. Under the light of the full moon, he scored his palm with the dagger and sealed the foundation. His magic would permeate the stone, the mortar, the grass and timber. A safe place to withstand any curse. Ah, the Curse. It became his obsession.

 _I'll comfort myself knowing such a curse is beyond your abilities. Your magic is limited by its own rotten core, Rumplestiltskin._ The fairy had given away a vital clue, a project to occupy his time. Now that he had the Seer's ability, however fragmented, he would see his path to the Dark Curse. He would find him. He had all the time in the world, after all.

* * *

Belle eyed the contents of her trunk, debating on which clothes she could skimp on to make room for her books. The gold dress—newly tailored to her budding figure—for formal events would do, another simpler one of forest green would work day to day. Her cloak was heavy enough for the Marchlands, but from what she'd read Arendelle was much colder. Grudgingly, she tossed in her fur-lined gloves and crammed her heavy boots into one corner. Hmm, that still left room for three books, four if she left behind Mortez's _A History of the Enchanted Forest: Magic and Assorted Subjects Vol. II_.

"Are you almost ready, darling?" Lord Maurice asked, poking his head through the doorway.

"Almost, Father," she said absently, chewing on the edge of her thumbnail. Mortez the Monk cross-referenced with Glendali's _Grimoire_ , but the latter was far from an exhaustive study. _A History_ would go, then.

"A bird from Arendelle arrived this morning. Queen Gerda sends her regards and writes that the princesses are eager for our visit," he said. Belle made a moue of distaste.

It puzzled her that the royals of Arendelle were interested in their small kingdom. The Marchlands were neither influential nor particularly wealthy. Why then, did they write seeking a companion for their daughters? Lord Maurice was mute on the subject, as was her mother, Lady Colette. At fourteen, Belle disliked being kept in the dark. Anna, she was told, was her own age, and the Crown Princess three years older.

"How long is the journey, Father? Shall I pack my riding habit?" she asked. A small smile touched her father's face, pleasure at her voiced enthusiasm, however feigned.

"I think not, darling. Crown Princess Elsa and Princess Anna are often sequestered to the castle, I'm told." That caught her attention. She dismissed the dilemma of her books and turned to face her father lounging in the doorway.

"Sequestered? Why?" she asked.

Her father's lined face gave no hint to his true thoughts, but his answering shrug was uncomfortable. Belle bit back a cry of frustration.

"The Queen would not say. The Crown Princess is a frail child, I suppose."

Belle filed that away to ponder later. Travel by caravan was notoriously monotonous, and she was certain she could worm more from Mother.

"If we cannot ride, then I should fetch another trunk. I can bring books for us to share," she said, half-jesting. Her father laughed. He threw a burly arm around her shoulders and drew her in for a kiss on her nose. Belle giggled, nestling into his embrace.

"I'm sure Arendelle Castle has its own library, my Belle. Come, let's find your mother. We shall oversee the loading together. I plan to dine at the Avolea outpost by tomorrow's sunset."

' _The figure of the 'Sorcerer' features across many Enchanted Forest cultures. A figure shrouded in mystery, some say he is a force of good, whilst others insist he is of the Darkness (see footnotes for corresponding resources). Consistent throughout this author's research, however, is that the 'Sorcerer' is a magician of great power. In fact, he is compared by some to be greater than any other, including the Dark One.'_ Belle draped the red ribbon attached to the book's spine to mark her place. The light was fading and squinting made her head ache.

"Anything interesting, Belle?" Mother asked with a tired smile. Belle returned the expression, kneading her neck. The carriage's jostling made her bones ache, but Father said they would reach the inn where they would spend the night a couple hours after sunset.

"Yes and no. Magic is a fascinating subject, but from everything I've read, it's so . . . so _vague_ ," she said. Mother chuckled.

"Is that so hard to believe? I doubt any magic-user would want to share their secrets with a nosy writer." Belle nodded, conceding the point.

Mother shared her love of books, but preferred dashing novels with the occasional text on dress-making or medicinal herbs sprinkled in. Belle enjoyed heady subjects: the histories, statecraft, language, and whatever scientific texts she could sneak by her governess.

"That makes sense," she said.

The two of them sat in contemplative silence for several minutes. Belle relished this time alone with her mother. Her governess and the ladies of the house that accompanied them from the castle had chosen to ride in the phaeton to watch the fireflies as evening fell.

"Why are we going to Arendelle, really?" she asked without preamble. Colette smiled again, this one tinged with the same exasperated fondness as her ladies. Her mother groped for her hands and Belle took them, faintly envious of her mother's long, graceful fingers.

"Too clever for your own good, as always, my Belle," she said. Belle shrugged, both proud and abashed.

"If you don't want to tell me, perhaps I could guess," Belle suggested. Mother leaned forward with a wry grin, looking lovely in the wash of dying golden light.

"Oh yes, that sounds like a wonderful game," she said. Belle made a show of looking at the carriage ceiling as if to find the answers written there.

"Certainly not marriage," Belle said. Mother laughed, the deep throaty laugh when she was truly amused.

"Not unless the customs in Arendelle are far different than ours. Try again," Mother said.

"Not a war alliance, either. Arendelle has the best navy in the realm, and well-trained soldiers."

"Your father has well-trained warriors too, veterans from the First Ogre War."

"Yes, but the ogres are defeated. Midas' kingdom is on peaceful terms with them, as is Leopold's," Belle said. Mother nodded in reply.

"True. What is left then for an enterprising lord such as your father?"

Belle nibbled on the edge of her fingernail, lost in thought. The sun had fully set, and she studied her mother's composed face in the light of their lamp.

"It must be a trade agreement of some sort," she said, with confidence. Mother raised an eyebrow.

"What can we offer such a kingdom?"

"They are a coastal kingdom. They must want grain, or ore," Belle said. Marchland steel, after all, was renowned for its temper.

"And what do you make of this pretense of finding companionship for the princesses?"

At this, Belle had no answer. There were no girls her age at the castle. At home, she was the lord's precocious daughter who spoke out of turn and read too much. One to be cosseted or scolded. Why a king and queen would want her for a companion for a princess, she did not know. Her mother's dark eyes glinted with restrained amusement and deep affection.

"You're right, we are traveling to secure a valuable trade alliance with Arendelle. But by the same token, alliances— _friendships_ —are also very important. One day, Elsa will be Queen of Arendelle. One day, _you_ will be Lady of the Marchlands. It is vital to foster ties between lands for the next generation."

Belle swallowed hard. The ever-present burden of her inheritance had never bothered her. It was only now that she was struck by the gravity of it. When she came of age, she would parlay with queens and mighty nations. The people of the Marchlands would look to _her_ for protection and guidance. Yes, in that case, a friendly queen—even a sickly one—would be welcome.

"I'll try my best to make you and Father proud," she said.

"My brave girl, you already do," Mother said, kissing her forehead.

Her books had been right, even summer air held a bite in Arendelle. Cool air and sunshine poured in from the carriage windows, tugging at the strands of Belle's brown curls. A peculiar emotion settled in her belly, a mixture of excitement and nervousness. A thin scrim of trees alongside the road gave way to reveal Arendelle's capital. She gasped. The capital was nestled at the base of a mountain, Belle could see a glitter of stained glass in the castle's high, pointed windows and a great lighthouse above the belfry. The walled town huddled between the mountains and the mouth of the bay. Belle breathed deeply of the sea's brine and a tang of wood smoke.

As they lurched down the road, Belle was fascinated by the undulation of waves crashing against the black rocks wreathing the bay, sharp cawing of gulls and the graceful gliding of ships: from the darting fisherman's craft to the sedate progress of a long-prowed warship.

"My lady, close the window! You'll catch your death!" her governess said. The other ladies exchanged irritable looks as the wind snarled their coiffed hair. With reluctance, Belle closed the window and leaned her forehead against its frame, watching amber patterns move along the parchment shutter.

"Mother, have you ever seen such a beautiful land?" she asked. Her face half cast in shadow, Lady Colette's smile was a mere token curve.

"It is lovely. I will be grateful to be free from this carriage."

For herself, Belle had forgotten her bodily pains in the anticipation of arrival and Arendelle's lovely scenery.

"Ho, the gate!" Father's voice rang with command.

"What's your business in Arendelle, Sir?" the gatekeeper oddly accented voice sounded bored rather than alarmed.

"Did you not receive word from our birds? I am Lord Maurice of the Marchlands, along with my wife Lady Colette and my daughter Belle. We have business with King Godric and Queen Gerda." Belle peeled back the edge of a shutter, finding a sliver of Papa's dappled warhorse Phillippe and the imposing dark stone of Arendelle's walls. The gatekeeper's window was blocked by the carriage's bulk.

"Of course, my apologies Sir! Welcome to Arendelle," he said.

The city was no less lovely or foreign from within. The peaked roofs seemed too sharp, the cobblestones too angular. The people had round, friendly faces; most women wore shawls shading their faces, and the men wore tasseled hats and pointed boots. Their horses too, were different, a stocky dun breed with a black stripe in their manes.

"Quickly, ladies. Make yourselves ready," Mother said, as they pulled to a stop inside the castle gates. Mother's voice was slightly muffled by the pins in her mouth as she tidied Belle's hair.

Father opened the door and the ladies all but spilled out, hampered by their skirts. Mother kept her composure, and helped Belle stay upright with a firm grip on her arm. The royal family awaited them in a semi-circle, flanked by advisors. In the center stood King Godric, red-gold hair glinting in the sunshine. His lean form was clad in a square-shouldered navy blue uniform, stiff with gold braiding. His face was inscrutable, a narrow mustache concealing a thin-lipped mouth. Queen Gerda was no less striking with her deep brown hair and blue eyes, the high-waisted gown flowing down her slender figure in folds of deep purple. Her expression was gentler, a wry smile quirking her lips. Before their splendor, Belle was sharply aware of Father's dusty coat and her own shabby gown with its loose hem.

"Greetings, our friends from the Marchlands," King Godric said, surprisingly soft-spoken.

"You must be exhausted from your journey," Queen Gerda said.

"Did I miss it? Are they here?"

"Anna, wait up!"

A flurry of movement behind Queen Gerda and then the king was pitched forward to his knees in an explosion of skirts. Father stepped forward, startled. A moments' intense confusion quickly ordered itself into two young ladies, floundering in their petticoats.

"Oof! Sorry, Papa! I, uh, didn't see you there." one said, tossing her red braid over her shoulder. Father helped King Godric to his feet.

"Gods above! It's a miracle you don't stumble off a cliff," the other girl said, fussily tidying her sister's gown. She wore gloves, Belle noticed, as she moved to stand beside her mother.

The king, for his part, seemed equal parts nonplussed and amused by his offspring. Dusting off the knees of his trousers, he straightened with considerable dignity.

"That's quite all right, darling. Now allow me to introduce you to our guests. Lord Maurice and Lady Collette of the Marchlands, and Lady Belle, this is my youngest daughter Anna," he said, a long-fingered hand resting gently on Anna's shoulder. Anna blushed prettily under their scrutiny, braid mussed and skirts wrinkled. Belle liked her immediately.

"A pleasure to meet you." Her laughing blue eyes fell on Belle.

"Oh gosh! You're beautiful!" she said, moving close to grasp Belle's hands. Flattered, it was Belle's turn to blush. A ripple of indulgent laughter moved through the gathered party.

"Oh thank you. That's what my name means, after all," she joked feebly, uncomfortable at the attention.

"Well, you deserve it," Anna said, threading her arm through Belle's, "Isn't she lovely, Elsa?"

"Oh yes, forgive me. My dear guests, this is my daughter Crown Princess Elsa," Godric said.

It was then that Belle met the princess's gaze—and was startled by the brilliant blue color and the deep sadness that lurked there. Elsa curtsied, white blond hair tied in a severe bun behind her head.

"A pleasure," she said, then smiled slightly, "Anna's right. Lady Belle is quite lovely. We shall get along nicely, I think."

Arendellian hospitality was a formidable thing, Belle found. Servants in deep green livery led them to sumptuous rooms where steaming baths already waited, banked fires crackling in the grate. Father and Mother shared a suite, and Belle was given a room near the princesses'. With the ladies bustling with the luggage, and preparing for the banquet to be held in their honor this evening, Belle was left to her own devices. She was grateful for a moment alone, wallowing in the luxury of a hot bath. She plucked a couple berries from a tray of food, enjoying their sharp tartness.

Princess Anna was a pleasant surprise, as cheerful and chatty as a magpie. Princess Elsa was something else entirely. The elder girl did not _seem_ sickly, merely sad. What had made her so sorrowful? Loneliness? In their brief interaction, the only person she seemed truly comfortable with was Anna. Even her parents did not touch her in passing, as they did with Anna. Were they afraid of some contagion?

"Perhaps Mother was right. Maybe she just needs a friend," Belle said, addressing her warped reflection in the looking glass on the table. Her contemplation was shoved to the back of her mind as her governess and ladies burst into the room, atwitter with the thought a fine banquet and oh, would there be dancing afterwards? Belle chattered with them, speculating on if the tall halls of Arendelle's castle held a wealth of handsome young men. A royal cousin, perhaps?

The clock in the hall struck seven o' clock by the time Belle and her ladies were ready. Mother met them at door, resplendent in green velvet, a rearing horse—the symbol of the Marchlands—stitched in gold along both sweeping sleeves.

"Your father will meet us at the table. You look beautiful tonight, my dear," Mother said, her soft hand cupping Belle's chin. She flushed at the praise, bitten fingernails plucking at the gold silken fabric.

"As do you, Mother," she said, grasping her hand. Colette smiled, and something clenched in Belle eased. The air of strain in her mother's face had vanished and it put Belle at ease.

"Come, I do hope Arendellian cuisine agrees with your father's stomach," she joked. Belle giggled, grateful for the distraction from her nerves.

"I guess we'll find out. I hope we're not late," Belle said.

The setting of their banquet was in a familial setting, merely a long candlelit table set beside a roaring fireplace. Belle relaxed. Her governess had trained her to have very pretty table manners. As long as no dancing was involved, she would be just fine. Father was already seated at King Godric's left, Elsa at his right. The three of them were deeply absorbed in conversation. Queen Gerda, who sat at the foot of the table, swiveled to look as the door opened. Her smile was just like Anna's, quick and easy.

"Welcome," she said.

"Ah, there are my girls. Come sit," Father said, cheeks flushed with drink and excitement. With the aid of a steward, Mother was escorted to her seat beside Father. The same steward returned and offered his arm to Belle, and she bit back her trepidation as she was seated across from Mother between Elsa and an empty chair—presumably Anna's. Queen Gerda cleared her throat gently. The king looked up in askance, then followed his wife's nod to Anna's seat.

"Elsa, will you see to your sister?" he asked. Elsa rose, softening the rolling of her eyes with a genuine smile.

"I'm here!" Anna's bright voice said. Both princesses dressed in the Arendellian style, long-sleeved gowns with full skirts in dark hues, Anna's in deep green and Elsa's in a rusty sort of purple.

"Just in time," Elsa said, dramatically sweeping her skirts aside to allow Anna to find her seat.

"I'm never late," Anna said with dignity.

"Nor early," Queen Gerda said. King Godric made a terse gesture, the steward hurriedly poured a measure of golden spirit.

"Enough. Let us toast the arrival of our friends from the Marchlands. Welcome, and let our time together be one of merriment and cooperation!"

"Here, here!" Father said. Belle raised her glass and then took a tentative sip of the spirit, breathing deep of the sharp bite of alcohol. She tasted syrupy caraway on her tongue and swallowed hard, nearly gagging. Tears pricked her eyes. Mother caught her gaze with an encouraging nod toward the water glass. Belle gulped the cold water gratefully.

The meal passed pleasantly; Belle found Arendellian food not so different from Marchland fare. A starter consisted of salty fish on a bed of crushed pine nuts, then a course of mutton in a thick gravy with mashed potatoes, all washed down with strong, sweet tea. Belle's favorite was dessert; a tart light and flaky as air, flavored with what Anna called a cloudberry, tart and smooth, thick with clotted cream. Conversation flowed along with the spirit—Belle sipped a more palpable port served with the dessert course. Father's and King Godric's laughter grew raucous while Queen Gerda and Mother chatted in low tones. That left Belle to converse with the two princesses. Anna proved to be even more garrulous after a few sips of spirit.

"So anyway, Elsa and I decided to take a sled down the stairs—you know, the grand staircase at the entryway? —anyway, we ended up going so fast that the front of the sled busted a hole in the wall!"

"And Anna's head nearly busted mine," Elsa said dryly. Anna swatted her sister's shoulder.

"Oh it wasn't that bad," she said. Elsa's responding smile was easy, but Belle noticed a tiredness around her eyes.

"In her defense, it was my idea," Elsa said.

Belle was at a loss. Her scrapes and mishaps usually took the form of sneaking into the library at night, or getting caught hiding behind the curtain at Father's war councils. As heir of the Marchlands, close friendships with the serving staff were deeply discouraged, and Belle had no siblings. What Anna and Elsa shared so casually roused a deep longing in Belle.

With no corollary anecdote to share, Belle said: "It sounds like great fun! I wonder if our fathers would let us explore. I'd love to see such lovely countryside."

Anna and Elsa shared a long, knowing look. Anna set down her glass with a deliberateness that suggested she was less than sober. Her expression had lost its laughing edge, though the rosy flush remained. From the tail of her eye, Belle noticed Elsa briefly hug herself, as if containing a spasm of pain.

"I don't think so, Belle. Did your mother not tell you?"

Belle frowned, both intrigued and nervous.

"Tell me what?"

"We are only allowed to leave the castle with a team of guards, and not at all near the full moon," Anna said. While the guard only made sense to protect the land's heiresses, Belle balked at the mention of a full moon—coincidentally due to rise tonight. Had she overlooked an Arendellian superstition?

"But why?" Belle asked, feeling foolish. Were they making sport of her naiveté? Anna's expression was sincere, as was her squeeze of Belle's hand.

"Because of the witch," Elsa said, blue eyes glittering like a heart of ice.

To Belle's unending dismay, they were unable to elaborate as Queen Gerda rose and announced it was time for the ladies to retire.

"Come Belle, bid the princesses goodnight," Mother said, flushed and relaxed by wine, food and good company. Belle bit the inside her lip to vent her frustration.

"Yes Mother," she said. The steward pulled out her chair for her, and she rose to curtsey deeply before Elsa and Anna, then the king and queen.

"Goodnight, my ladies. Maybe we can continue our conversation at breakfast?" she asked.

"I'd like that," Elsa said, though her tone seemed brittle.

Sleep did not find Belle that night. She tossed and turned in her goose-feather bed, despite its silky sheets with her toes warmed by heated bricks. Belle could not remember any reference to a witch, in lore of either Arendelle or the Marchlands. Resolve hardened inside her. She would find out the end of the story. They were supposed to be friends, after all. She dragged a blanket around her shoulders and tiptoed with practiced ease around the snoring forms of her governess and ladies.

The door opened to her light touch, silent on oiled hinges. Angular shards of moonlight fell from high windows, and Belle shivered at the chill. She was much too old to be cowed by ghost stories. Anna and Elsa's room was two doors down and when Belle saw a cowled figure she nearly cried out. Instead she hugged the shadowed wall and watched the figure, catching a glint of white blond hair in the moonlight. Where was Elsa going? Mingled curiosity and fear urged Belle to follow around several twists and turns, down a stair to a . . . ballroom? So she wasn't sneaking outside? In the murky semi-darkness, Elsa shoved her cowl from her head. From Belle's narrow glimpse around the doorjamb, the elder girl looked frightened.

"R—R—Rumplestiltskin, I . . . I summon thee," Elsa said.


End file.
